The guests for the first show are filing in, settling at their tables more quickly than the ten o’clock crowd does. This show’s audience is generally tamer, too; eight’s early for a New York Saturday, and this is usually folks’ first stop of the night. It also explains the concentration of bachelorette parties. Andrea always schedules them early. Hen parties devolve notoriously fast; the least we can do is provide a base layer of solids before they start drinking in earnest.

Waiters bustle among the tables on the elevated platforms at the back of the room, igniting tea lights and pouring champagne into the flutes of a soon-to-be-seated party. A narrow aisle separates the tables from the rest of the dining room, where two- and four-tops fill the remainder of the space, nudging the small stage. It’s a tight fit, but that’s part of the fun. Performers have to get from the stairs to the stage via whatever path they can forge; anyone in their way risks becoming part of the production.

The lights of the dining area are down low, softening the edges of guests and muting the wear and tear of the club itself. But I know where to look. The bubbled spot in the damask wallpaper to the left of the stage; the mismatched sconces along the far wall; the worn velvet upholstery on the banquette seating in back. Usually, the lived-in touches add to Meryton’s charm, but paired with Andrea’s odd behavior downstairs, they fuel a concern that’s simmered on the back burner since I started working here.

There is no way this place makes money.

The jazz shows get a decent showing, and the English tea service offered weekdays does all right, but the weekend burlesque revue keeps Meryton afloat. This is Tribeca; any business that isn’t flourishing is liable to be turned into a Pilates studio or a baby boutique. With the club owner’s out-of-nowhere change to the scheduling, I can’t help but think he might be angling that way.

My stomach pitches at the thought, but I summon a smile and head for the hostess station, twinkling my fingers at guests as I pass. A gal with a hot-pink, saucer-sized “maid of honor” pin beckons to me with her phone, and I join the group for a photo, recruiting a waiter, Esteban, to snap the pic.

I press on, but my steps falter when I spot Andrea looking over some papers at the far end of the bar. Usually, she’d be mingling with guests or helping the hostess, armed with a dirty martini and her crimson smile. The martini’s there, off to the side of the paperwork, but the closest thing to a smile is the crescent of lipstick at the glass’s rim.